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Sleep Now, And...
He dreamed of who he was. He was Sam Carpenter. A farmer from the Highlands, tired and weary of the iron rule of Stromgarde. With him were one hundred and fifteen farmers, the last remnants of the peasant rebellion he had fostered and commanded. The vengeful eagle of Strom was upon them, with an army ten times their size. There was no hope for victory or for retreat from this conflict. Yet Sam did not despair. He knew the fight was far greater than his life, or the lives of those who followed him. For this fact, every last one of them would fight to the bitter end… He was… He was Ta’jnar the Unbreakable, Champion of the Arena. He was the king of battle, master of the spirits and voodoo, blessed by the primal gods, and deadliest of all the shadow hunters. He wielded Zin’Kraghor, the mighty greataxe which drank the blood of the fallen. The chieftains to the south spoke of him in hushed, fearful whispers, and those of his own people were in awe – this, they reasoned, would be the true God-Hero of the Gurubashi, and he would be the one who would unite the tribes and restore glory to the mighty Empire. Here in the ancient Arena he challenged all who would dare oppose the might of Zul’Gurub…none had yet to best him. What new heathen contender longed for Zin’Kraghor’s bite today? He was… He was Taraum, the ancient chieftain of the Runetotem clan. He wore the scars of a thousand battles with the hated centaur, and would wear a thousand more before his work was done. His people needed a homeland. They followed him with great pride, believing that he would deliver one unto them. His hooves were weary and cracked, his mane rugged and coarse. Taraum Runetotem hefted his mighty war-totem, swinging once to fell the first marauder of yet another centaur raid. He was… He was Ranulffson Brighthall, Mountain King of Khaz Modan. Axe and hammer and thunder and lightning were his friends, and the Dark Iron traitors would quake before him. Even now they poured into Loch Modan from the hellish Badlands, threatening all those who lived in Thelsamar. Yet again the feud of the Three Hammers would play out again, and Ranulffson would take great pleasure in slaying the occult horrors of the Dark Iron sorcerer-thanes… He was… He was Anduin Lothar, regent-lord of Stormwind, last of the bloodline of Arathor…the Lion of Azeroth, here now against the mighty Horde in its final stand at Blackrock Mountain… He was… Vandrian opened his own eyes. The wide fields of the island spread before him. There, just beyond the quiet, swaying long-grass he could see the seas that spread forth to the west, those same seas that had once seduced him into the life of adventure. He sat upright, hands dangling down before him. He was seated on a rock, clothed in simple silk robes, died crimson. Sea winds breathed down his back and trailed through his hands in silent wisps. He curled his fingers in response, smiling inwardly as he felt the wind change its pattern around his flesh as cool mists were carried into his palm. He shook his head, rising from the rock on which he had been meditating. The grass parted as he strode through them, slowly walking down the hill. Not a tree was in sight, and for that he wondered – he could not recall any of the islands being composed of simple rolling hills. For any true son of Quel’thalas, it was unsettling without at least one tree under which the shade of leaves might be sought. And yet, the blessed sun was kind to him today. Not a cloud graced the skies, yet neither did the sun reach down upon these green hills with its scorching summer fury. Vandrian searched himself as he walked, and found himself strangely at peace. There were no worries in his heart, no craving of the arcane. He felt as if he had walked a thousand miles, and yet he was neither hungry nor thirsty. Only weariness battled his content heart. There was also hope…hope for a rest from his walking? No, not from his trek…from his battles, he knew. He paused, looking out on to the oceans. The mainland was in sight, the distant trees of Quel’thalas waving in the winds. He smiled. Somewhere from the coasts he could hear pipes playing, singing a sweet, ancient tune with its voice. Vandrian paused, believing that he had heard a young woman’s voice amidst those pipes for a moment. Like all good memories, it passed in seconds. He sighed. He closed his eyes, inhaling the ocean airs deeply, a sublime smile quietly invading his features. “Hey…I know you.” He paused, opening his eyes quickly. As he was gazing skyward, he saw nothing at first. Vandrian looked down towards his feet, and there stood a small elven girl, no older than her first decade of life. She was clad plainly in a red dress and white blouse. Small, grinning eyes of shimmering green (Gods take him, greener than any green he had seen before!) stared back at him. Her mouth shared the grin that was evident in her eyes, revealing perfect white, pearly teeth. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and she swayed to and fro with the wind, waiting for Vandrian to speak. The old elf opened his mouth. “You do?” The grin on her face widened, and she nodded quickly. “Sure! I know you! The others have been waiting for you, you know. You were being silly and came out here, said you wanted some air. Everyone wants you to come back now. Come on.” She urged Vandrian onward, grabbing onto the hem of his robes and giving a mighty tug. Vandrian smiled politely, quickening his pace to keep up with the lively girl. Down the hill they walked, winding their way through the knolls across the island. She seemed to know her path instinctively, and began to hop across an imaginary board of hopscotch towards their destination. Over the knoll was a small house, built into the side of the hill itself. A small door and a tiny window were the only two openings from the lodging that Vandrian could make out. The girl looked back to Vandrian, grinning again and pointing anxiously towards the dwelling. Vandrian smiled slightly and nodded, and she raced on ahead towards the quaint house. Vandrian paused. He looked out over the seas again, surveying the coast one more time. “Little girl…” Vandrian was surprised by the booming sound of his own voice. “I wanted to ask…where is Silvermoon? Usually you can see the city from the coast, but I see no sight of it.” She turned back to Vandrian. The grin vanished from her face, replaced instead with a tiny smile. Gone was the expression that loomed on the verge of uncontrollable giggles – here, this smile was one of sublime happiness. It exuded from her entire expression. She nodded her head, turning to face Vandrian fully. “You said we didn’t need it anymore. You told us that Silvermoon was our home once and we owed it a great deal for giving us life, and we believed you. But you also said that we didn’t need it anymore, that we would be happier out here in nature. So we left it, left it in the other place. We don’t need Silvermoon here you see, because we’ve got everything we need from it right here. We couldn’t bring it because it would have been a waste of time. You told us all of that. You told us all that when we first began to walk here. You see now?” He didn’t remember them speaking anything else before they entered through the doorway. Six other elven children, all the same age as the girl that lead him, were at play or work within the house. There were three boys and three girls, and one more for seven. Vandrian bowed his head to avoid a beam in the house, quick on his feet to follow the girl with green eyes. They approached one of the boys, a brown-haired lad seated on a stool and busy peeling fruit. He looked up from his work, and Vandrian saw his eyes to be bright blue, clear as the sky itself. He tilted his head, looking up at Vandrian with a calm, cool gaze, silently weighing and measuring the older elf in his mind. After a few seconds the boy shrugged and looked to the girl that had led Vandrian in. “You found him? Where was he?” She giggled. “Up on the rock, watching clouds. He was probably asleep again, because he’s so old. You can’t tell when they’re sleeping or thinking, when they’re that old, you see. But we can’t let him doze off for too long, can we? He’s got plenty of work to do here, as do you. He’ll be hungry you see, so you should get him something to eat, okay?” The boy grinned thinly and nodded. “Alright, alright.” He hopped down from his stool and wandered off to the back room. After this the girl left Vandrian, who felt like a giant in such a home with this low ceiling. He took a seat on one of the tiny chairs, spreading his robes out to sit comfortably. The other children played around him, taking no offense to the elf seated there. Some of them didn’t even notice him, although he could tell they knew from their giggles and hushed whispers between each other. “Vandrian comes home, finally.” He turned to face the voice. Another small girl, this one with black hair. She was seated on the ground, with toys scattered about her – little soldiers and small wooden horses. Vandrian noticed her eyes, glowing bright yellow. It almost reminded him of someone, but he could not think of who would have… “You know my name?” The girl gave him a grin, just like the green-eyed one had done. “Of course. Everyone here knows Vandrian Souldragon.” He shook his head, chuckling for the first time. “You have my name wrong. It’s Blooddrake.” She sat up, placing her hands on her hips and tilting her head. “No, it’s Souldragon. Blooddrake was a name you had lives ago. It’s a name of shame and for a promise to rebuild. But you don’t have shame here, and you don’t need to build anymore. Souldragon is more fitting here for you, Vandrian. You’re much taller now, you know.” Vandrian paused, startled by the words. “Who…who are you?” She smiled, standing up. “We’re the Children, Vandrian. The Children you made. I thought you knew that by now.” The old elf turned, and as he did so did the other four children. The green-eyed girl and the blue-eyed boy walked into the room again at that time, and finally Vandrian saw them. Seven children. And gods, their eyes! Seven colours. Seven different, brilliant eyes that shone back at him. The seven colours he knew, that gazed back to him, piercing deep into his soul. Seven children, seven colours, seven pairs of eyes, seven smiles… His mind was at a loss. His head swirled, aching. He could not think of another question. “Wh…what are you?” They all spoke, seven as one. The word they spoke was lost to him, drowned out by silence. He saw their lips move, three times, but he could not make out the syllables. “He’s here. Good.” Vandrian looked up from the children as the eighth figure entered the room. He was not a child, he was a tall, lean elf, eyes blazing, face taut. But he wasn’t like any elf Vandrian had ever seen before. He smiled wryly, sending deep shivers through Vandrian’s body. He couldn’t understand this. What was with his skin? Why was his skin…his colour it...not normal…not…b… Vandrian faded from the world. = Vandrian stirred in his sleep. The dream would be forgotten, lost to the vastness of his subconscious. Traces would remain, yet nothing more. Quietly, Laznam waited in the corner, recording Vandrian’s REM patterns as he slept. = “Thank you,” spoke the Ancient One. He turned and left. The Dreamer simply smiled and closed her rheumy eyes once more.